


Don't forget how this story begins

by minkhollow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Warehouse 13
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkhollow/pseuds/minkhollow
Summary: Just when Helena thinks she's made a terrible mistake coming back to London, she finds a slice of constancy amidst everything that's changed.





	Don't forget how this story begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, uh. Long time no see, fandoms of my heart. (The Good Omens TV show was always, always going to drag me back. XD)
> 
> ANYWAY, this is a variation on the 'outsider POV of Aziraphale's bookshop' thing, because it occurred to me that if anyone needs to see a familiar face after an actual century of few to none, it's... all three of these idiots, really, but especially poor Helena. Timeline-wise, this is mid-season 2 for Warehouse (and probably set to knock that season finale off course), and 'whenever is handwavily convenient' for Good Omens.

London has changed so much.

Helena hadn’t had time to reflect on it, on her previous visit; she was more focused on getting into the house and reclaiming her vest. Given that she’d been out of the bronze for maybe 48 hours by the time Myka and Pete caught up to her, she’s not certain she would have been in any state to reflect if she’d wanted to. It’s been a few months now, and she’ll never be able to face Paris again, but she’d thought she was ready for this.

She was wrong. Oh, how she was wrong. Woolly is gone (her fault), Josephine is gone, Charles is gone (and good riddance, really), her circle of friends is gone (as is Rudyard’s rude verse about her retrieval exploits), the guest house that served as their above-ground base of operations is gone, the tunnels that made up Warehouse 12 are likely gone, Christina is gone, Christina is gone, _Christina is gone_ , this was a terrible mistake and she really ought to cut her losses and go somewhere else. Anywhere will do.

Well, anywhere but Paris. The only city that will serve her worse than the one where she lived is the one where her daughter died, and nothing she could do could change that. The entire purpose of this visit was to marvel over new developments, but every street only reminds her of something that hasn’t been there in decades.

Her feet have taken her into Soho without her input; no surprise there, as she used to come this way decently often. Helena keeps going, bracing herself for yet another inevitable loss so long as she’s wallowing in grief, as though she hadn’t done enough of that in her century as a bloody statue. Nothing else has lasted that long, and it’s silly of her to think—

The shop is still there.

She stops dead in the crosswalk for a moment before she remembers herself, gets out of the street, and continues staring. It’s unmistakable – the same hand-painted lettering over the door, the same dusty shelves heaped with books, the same sign on the door professing the owner’s erratic approach to business hours. Somehow, it had always been open when she needed it, though, this refuge of her teenage years. She’d realised within about five minutes that the owner had no intention of actually _parting_ with any of his books, and with that understanding achieved, she was granted permission to read as much as she liked, provided she handled the older manuscripts with the care they deserved. (The misprinted Bibles were particularly hilarious, even as she found herself drifting away from church.)

It’s a balm to her heart, one she hadn’t allowed herself to think on how badly she needed until the piece of constancy was there in front of her. Even so, she doesn’t dare go in – the sign claims it’s closed, for one thing, and she’d prefer to grieve in private than make whatever poor scion of the family is currently running the place deal with the emotional disaster swirling inside her. Helena allows herself a few more minutes of nostalgia before turning to go, not pausing as the shop door opens behind her.

“Helena? Helena Wells?”

Helena freezes, not sure if she should trust her ears, and turns around slowly. That _sounded_ like Mr. Fell, and there are, as she has thoroughly established this afternoon, precious few people on the face of the earth who would recognise her on sight these days. Seeing him properly confirms this is no however-many-greats grandson, but the man himself – the same white-blond hair, the same unfortunate dress sense, and the same delighted grin on seeing her come round again.

“I thought that was you. It’s been an absolute _age_ , my dear!” He’s closed the relatively small gap between them, still beaming; Helena finds herself swallowing around a lump in her throat. She hopes she’s still managing to smile somewhat believably.

“And you haven’t changed a bloody bit,” she says, and then the dam breaks.

***

Helena only vaguely remembers Mr. Fell guiding her into the shop; she’s nudged into a seat and handed a handkerchief (of course he wouldn’t stoop to keeping paper tissues around), and then a mug of hot cocoa once she’s mostly stopped sobbing. Mr. Fell doesn’t stray far from her, eventually sitting down in a well-worn armchair that might or might not be new since her last visit.

“This is a _pleasant_ surprise, to be sure,” he says, when Helena’s calmed her breathing enough to drink some of the cocoa, “but it is nevertheless a rather large one. How on Earth did you come to be here and now?”

“It’s a long story, darling, and a rather unpleasant one. Work was part of it, as was not trusting myself with my own grief. Besides, I could ask you the same thing.”

“Ah, some mysteries are best left unsolved, even by your particular agency.”

“Assuming it still wants anything to do with me,” she mutters, but she doesn’t press him for a more specific answer. If he’s not giving one, either he suspects she wouldn’t believe it or he wants her to work for it.

Mr. Fell teases the whole story out of her eventually. He always was one of the best listeners Helena’s ever known, and it doesn’t hurt that he was the first person to encourage her to write her own books. (He was just as outraged as her that nothing got bloody published without her brother’s photograph plastered on it.) Even after all this time – even with the weight of her grief and rage almost too much to bear – it’s easy to fall back into that routine. She even admits to the plan that’s been festering in her mind for most of the time she was bronzed; it started as something to think about other than reliving her greatest failures, but she’s seeing less and less reason not to plunge the world into a new ice age as time goes by.

When she finishes, he says, “I don’t believe you’ll do it.”

“Do you doubt my ability?”

“I don’t doubt that you _can_ , my dear, especially not with the endless bag of tricks at your disposal. I simply don’t believe that you _will_. We both know full well that this world contains at least as many wonders as it does terrible things, and sometimes they’re one and the same. Besides, I doubt that there’s not even one person who could convince you the cost is too great to continue.”

He’s talking around something, Helena can see that much; one doesn’t work in supernatural artifact retrieval without picking up at least some of that art for oneself. But he’s right, and she knows it. Myka wouldn’t stand for it. She would force Helena to start with her, if she meant to continue, and Helena cannot do that. Mr. Fell’s also doing a good portion of that work himself, just by being here.

“Well, enough about me, darling. How has the last century treated you? Hopefully you had something better to do than stare at your own eyelids for the duration.” If there’s one thing Helena doesn’t have to ask, it’s whether he still has her books. Quite aside from the value Mr. Fell places on the written word in general, she’d signed them for him, and she knows his signed books receive an extra degree of reverence.

“Oh, it’s gone well enough, I suppose. I’ve been keeping busy. Nearly got blown to bits during the Blitz – not an experience I recommend, mind you.”

Mr. Fell launches into a rambling account of his goings-on since they last talked (just before Christina’s death); in a way, Helena suspects he needs to share the story just as badly as she’d needed to talk to someone. As he talks, she toys with the question of how he’s still alive in the first place. He’s not the sort to risk using a Warehouse-level curiosity for the purpose, not when the risks involved are ‘someone dies horribly’ so very often. He wouldn’t put someone else’s life on the line like that unless it were absolutely necessary.

He wasn’t at all surprised by the line of work she got into, either, which suggests a more than passing familiarity with the supernatural in some form or other. It may be a mystery she has no hope of solving, but between that and Mr. Fell’s story, she’s not thinking about the ache of Christina’s absence, or everyone else who’s been dead for decades, or the fact that the world has changed so much – but so very, very little in the ways that truly matter.

As Mr. Fell approaches the end of his story, the bells over the shop’s front door jangle, and Helena sighs. She’s not remotely prepared for anyone else to see her in this state, never mind that she’s calmed down considerably since she found the shop still standing, and she knows Mr. Fell has a rather dim view of customers on a good day. He’s also not the sort to indicate he’s open if he is, in fact, hosting company; it’s a trick that kept Charles from finding her several times.

“He’s bloody closed, can’t you _read_?” she calls – a bit presumptuous of her, but there’s little Mr. Fell won’t forgive, and Helena’s not stupid enough to try anything against his books. The footsteps approaching the room they’re sitting in slow, but don’t stop, and then the third surprise of the afternoon walks in.

Unlike Mr. Fell, Crowley – he’d insisted on simply using his surname, for some reason – _has_ adapted his clothing to suit current fashion sensibilities. It’s the combination of distinctive hair, high cheekbones, and utter refusal to remove his dark glasses indoors that give him away. Well, those along with the fact that he’s stopped in the doorway to stare at Helena like he’s just seen a ghost.

She can’t help laughing. “I might have _known_ you two were acquainted.”

“Well. This is a thing.” Crowley visibly shakes off his loss of composure in favor of a positively fiendish grin. “What, did you get bored of just writing about time travel and decide you needed to actually invent it?”

“Oh, I did that too, but it has little to do with my being here now. Do pull up a chair, darling; it seems we have a bit of catching up to do.”

Crowley does pull up a chair (and some bottles of wine, from out of his arse for all she can tell), and the ache in Helena’s heart eases a little bit more.

**Author's Note:**

> Josephine is my name of choice for Warehouse 12's equivalent of Mrs. Frederic. That, the concept of W12's storage being largely underground, and Helena's belief she was responsible for her partner's death are the headcanon portions of her losses.
> 
> And THAT'S A WRAP unless I decide I have a burning need to write 'the father of science fiction gets utterly plastered with an angel and a demon.'


End file.
